


Stranded

by MsChievous



Series: Whumptober 2018 [9]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prom's blood is a daemons magnet, Serious Injuries, Suicidal Thoughts, Whump, World of Ruin, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 16:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16245599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsChievous/pseuds/MsChievous
Summary: Prompto finds himself injured and alone on a haven, surrounded by daemons.





	Stranded

**Author's Note:**

> back at it with FFXV! My next two works will still be MHA because I'm a slut for that show, but then the rest are planned to be Prompto-centric. 
> 
> I really do want to make more MHA fics, but I also wanna keep this account solely for FFXV, so I'm going to use that invitation I never used to make a separate account. I'll put more info in Thursday's drabble.

Thin fingers press against the bandaged wound on his leg and he hisses. “Well,  _ shit _ ,” Prompto huffs, scrabbling up farther onto the rough haven stone. The daemons which normally wander aimlessly seemed to have gotten a whiff of his blood and want the rest.

The beasts wander closer and closer, wary enough of the glowing blue runes so Prompto’s mostly in the clear, save for his wound and his meager rations. 

He scrabbles for his phone and calls Ignis. He’s probably closest and more likely to pick up, but it’s still a long shot. Expectedly, the call goes to voicemail. Prompto manages a strained, “Uh, h-hey, Iggy.” He takes a breath and continues. “I was just- I guess- Um… I’m hurt. My leg. There’s a lot of daemons, maybe… maybe fifteen or twenty. More will probably come. I, uh- I don’t have any curatives, so it would be really great if you could get some help? I… Yeah, you’re probably not even gonna listen, I’ll call Gladio…”

He hangs up and flops back on the ground. He’s so tired, he just wants to sleep…

 

* * *

 

It’s dark the next time he opens his eyes. He jerks upright with a start.  _ Fuck _ , how long has it been? Has he been bleeding out all this time? His makeshift bandages on his leg helped the blood clot, but he’s still not in the clear yet. There are more daemons yet, and bigger ones. Two Iron Giants, a few Arachnes, even a Naga. He suppresses the memory of the daemon wrapping her scaley body around his torso and dragging him away all those years ago.

His phone is still laying next to him, and he checks it, trying not to be too disappointed when he sees Ignis hasn’t responded. With a grunt of pain, he manages to sit up and rummages through his backpack. He still has a few days’ rations so he can hold out, but he’s still toeing the line of dying before he can see his best friend again.

Biting his lip, he picks up the phone and calls Gladio. The shield is probably halfway across Leide right now, but his injury throbs and head spins and stomach aches. Besides, even if he can’t come himself many people still owe him favors.

The phone rings once then goes straight to voicemail. Prompto’s heart sinks. “Uh, hey, big guy. Just, umm… I’m hurt. Pretty bad. My leg. I can last a couple days, but… but not much longer. I-I know your phone’s not on much, but  _ please _ at least call someone? I’m at Sothmock Haven, by the old…. Ummm, by the old Empire outpost. There’s- there’re daemons, a lot, so you might wanna get some friends.”

He tries not to let hopelessness swallow him as he hangs up again. He’s gotten used to taking care of himself. Not only the basics, like cooking and cleaning and general life management but also lately at rescuing himself and not getting into these situations at all.

But… but he just  _ can’t _ . Any pressure causes his leg to collapse, and the daemons would swarm him the second he left the haven’s protection. 

_ Maybe you should just do it. Just walk out there. It would be all over. _

He bites his lip against the urge to just give up. He thinks of Ignis and Gladio, whose last correspondence with him had been an urgent voicemail begging them for help. He thinks of Cindy and Cid, their warm smiles downcast at yet another death they have to experience. But mostly, he thinks of Noctis - coming back only to find his friend dead. He can’t do that to him, to  _ them _ .

So he picks up the phone and dials again. He doesn’t have much hope, the Marshall is always busy, he’s probably keeping Insomnia clear-

“Hello?” 

The voice is so unexpected Prompto can only freeze, eyes wide.

“Prompto, what do you need?”

“M-Marshall. I- uh, I’m hurt. Bad.”

Cor sighs. “Where?”

“Soth-sothmark haven.” The blond can almost imagine him rubbing his temples. “A-and there’s at least twenty daemons. They like the scent of my blood. Cause of the whole… Niff thing, I think.”

“Naturally,” The Marshall says, “I’ll have people to help ASAP, but it will be a day yet. Can you hold out?”

“I have to,” He responds.

 

* * *

 

Cor’s late, Prompto notes dully. His phone is long dead, so he only has the sky’s faint lightening and darkening to tell the time. But the sky has gotten lighter and darker and lighter again since Cor picked up, and he’s seen no sign of help. He still has half a water bottle and an almost-empty boxed lunch, but his leg has been throbbing worse than usual, and he doesn’t have the energy to take a look anymore.

He’s pretty sure he’s been fading in and out. He has weird dreams about Noctis and the others, or maybe they’re memories, he’s not quite sure. The pain is just so bad and he just wants to sleep…

There’s a loud, creaking groan, and the haven beneath him quakes. He turns his head but sees nothing. Then the other side, but still nothing. He sighs and lets his head rest against the cool haven floor.

There are more shouts and hisses and rumbling, but it’s almost soothing as he feels his body almost float.

“Prompto.” A hand slaps his cheek, none too gently. “Hey, you need to open your eyes.”

His eyes snap open. “Cor,” he manages.

The Marshall searches his face for a moment. “C’mon, kid, let’s get you out of here.”

He feels himself being lifted up and then draped over someone’s back. His face brushes against stubble and smells vaguely of familiar cologne.

“Sorry, blondie,” Gladio murmurs, adjusting his grip.

He means to respond, but he’s falling deeper and deeper into unconsciousness until he’s completely gone.

 


End file.
